The Darkness Grows

She is my Auntie.

When the phone rings at our house, I listen for the caller I.D., and if it is a day that I’ve already answered and talked to her, I let it ring.

She usually leaves a voice message.  If it is the second or third one for the day, I already know that it’s not a good day.  If I’m not home (or otherwise occupied) when the message is left, I can tell from her voice whether it’s a good day or one of those days when things are not right for her.

It seems the darkness grows deeper by the day.  I make it my goal to bring back to life happy memories, stories of her childhood printed on my heart from my own sweet Mama, accomplishments now forgotten, things done right, said right, and especially sweet things about her husband, now gone these 14 years.  If I can get her to laugh, it makes my day.

I hear, laced through the repetitive questions, the shadows of what she wishes had been different.  She remembers a papa, brilliant, talented, but caught in the throes of a violent mental health crisis. She remembers coming to a new community and feeling safe, and loved and accepted for probably the first time in her life.  She remembers betrayal that turned to blessing and still feels the shakiness of a faith that wasn’t nurtured in Grace but in performance and punishment for failure. She worries about eternity and questions that are way beyond her and me.  She repeatedly tells me that she misses the community, feeling that, if she had just stayed here, it would fix everything.  I remind her gently that what she (and all of us) miss is our youth, our strength, and the people we love who have gone on before, and she hears me for the moment and acknowledges the truth, but she will forget in the next paragraph because she cannot help it.

Some days are harder than others.  Today was one of those.  I answered the phone that rang earlier than usual, and the voice at the other end was troubled. She asked about old friends, (long gone) and inquired about their health, and thought that she hadn’t heard of their passings.  She grieves that she wasn’t at her sister, My Sweet Mama’s funeral, nearly 11 years ago, (she was there) because she thinks her “death would be more real to her if she had just been there.”  For some strange reason, she doesn’t forget that her three older sisters are gone, but she confuses her youngest sister with her youngest daughter and tells me that her daughter’s husband has passed away. Usually, she is able to be steered back to reality without causing her too much embarrassment for forgetting.

I’m asked repeatedly why I answer her calls, and why I spend time talking to her when she won’t remember in an hour that she talked to me, and if I don’t answer for a week, she will leave messages, but never remember that I didn’t answer.

This is all true.  She won’t remember.

But I will.

So, though I will continue to set parameters, I will continue to answer my auntie when her name comes up on my caller I.D. when I can.

Why?  Because I remember the woman she was, and how her heritage shaped her with her love of words, her intelligence, her expressive emotions, and even the brokenness that has been more evident since she lost her husband who helped to hold her steady through many difficult years.

Why?  Because I know that this encroaching darkness is robbing her of not only her fierce independence, but also the good memories of her varied and happy life.  They are getting lost with the onslaught of the difficult inconveniences of growing older, and it is so hard for her as she tries to muddle through.  The emotions are crashing around her very soul, and she isn’t sure why she feels so much grief, so much confusion, and why she cannot make even the smallest decisions about her life. Yes, it’s a normal process, but my heart aches for her.

WHY?  (And this may be the most selfish reason of all).  Because I know the time is coming when she will not only not know my phone number, but she will not know my name.  This Auntie who was in the house when I was born, who has always been a cheerleader and an encourager.  Who even now tells me things that aren’t true, but it makes her feel normal to say things that she thinks will make me feel good about myself, my husband and my family.  Like so many things, what does it matter?  She believes it for this moment, and it’s okay.

The day will come when the progression will have taken its toll, and the voice will be silent and there won’t be tangible memories for her to repeat . . . and I will weep. 

But by God’s Grace, not with regret.